


Line of Duty, Line of Fire

by Kicker



Series: Red Flags and Flight Suits [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Sexual Content, Smoking, Spoilers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-21 12:44:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6052120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sole Survivor of Vault 111. A woman with a new-found talent for killing, and a long-standing one for making difficult decisions even more complicated for herself.</p>
<p>Hancock's probably regaled you with his favorite stories about her. Maybe you put up with Maxson and his brooding for long enough to get his side of things. And I'm sure there was another guy around here a moment ago, but he seems to have disappeared. Huh.</p>
<p>Never mind. Sit down, make yourself comfortable. The lady herself is here, and it looks like she's in the mood for talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four

**Author's Note:**

> Guide to the series:  
> 1\. [The Smut](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5730103)  
> 2\. [The Angst](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5834608)  
> 3\. [The Liar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5942359)  
> 4\. [The Dame](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6052120) (this one)

My name is Corinna.

You may have heard a little bit about me by now. You may not have. Either way, I think it's very important for you to know this:

I am an asshole.

Now I'm not saying that so you think 'hey, she's self-aware, and that's the first step, right? Redemption arc starts here.'

No. I'm an asshole. I know I'm an asshole. And I don't or can't really do anything to stop it. It's more fun, I tell myself. Interesting stories. Unsuitable men. Who'd be a nice guy? Booor-ing.

I want to find somebody with beautiful cursive handwriting, get them to make me a poster for my wall. 'Reasons why Corinna is an asshole.' Reasons why nobody should be surprised by anything I do.

Item number one will be: I'm a boundary-pusher. I see a line, I poke my toe over it to see what happens. I will push my luck and your patience until one or other of us does something regrettable.

That is why I am on my knees in the back room of a bar in Goodneighbor, locking eyes with the leader of the military organisation that I only just joined.

Item number two: a certain lack of impulse control. Plans tend to appear fully-formed in my head, and they seem so perfect and infallible until my rational brain catches up with me. Then I suddenly realise exactly what I'm doing and think... oh shit. Now I've got to get myself out of this.

See above. Go me.

Item number three: I run away from problems. Problems that have generally come about due to a combination of items one and two. Back in the old days, I would sink into the warm embrace of dive bars, strong alcohol, and cigarettes. And warm embraces. Now... well. War never changes. Neither do I.

This is where John Hancock comes in. Literally.

On the face of it, it doesn't seem like a match made in heaven. It's more like the setup for a bad joke. What do you get if you cross a frozen TV dinner and a pharmaceutical experiment?

More often than not, a headache and a hefty cleanup bill.

We met. He killed someone. I helped him out with a couple of projects in Goodneighbor. Then he helped me out with a couple of trouble spots around town. Keeping his hand on the pulse of the city, he said.

Flashback time. Picture the scene.

We've just 'liberated' Hangman's Alley from the bunch of asshole raiders that were there before. I felt kinda sorry for the first settlers who walked in through the door, after. Ghoul in a military coat and a woman with a shotgun saying 'Hey, welcome to your new home! It's a bit rotten, but look, there's a basketball hoop! Well, enjoy! Bye!'

But, it ticks the Minutemen boxes, so Garvey is going to be happy, at least. I've got a few new scorch marks on these jeans of mine, and Hancock's definitely looking a bit more spaced out than normal. But, you know, I can always make time for a celebration.

So Third Rail it is. He sits down beside me, but he hasn't brought drinks. Fumbles his jet inhaler, drops it on the seat with a little laugh.

So I already know he's about to push his luck. And he doesn't plan on staying here for long.

Sure enough, he cocks his head at me. "Hey," he says. "Let's not fuck around. Well, let's not exclude that from the list of potential activities, but I'm gettin' ahead of myself. It ain't escaped my notice that you've been flirtin'. And I've definitely been flirtin'. It'll never last, but I'm thinkin' we can have some fun in the meantime."

I can't say that I have been flirting. Not deliberately, anyway. We just have a rapport. A similar way of looking at the world. And I'm a General, I'm sure I'm supposed to behave myself.

Ah, fuck it.

"You can't be interested in a smoothskin like me," I say. "I'd ruin your image. King of the ghouls, wasn't it?"

"Sexy king of the ghouls," he says, pretending to be offended.  
  
"Obviously," I say. "Did that even need to be said?"

He grabs my hand. "How does queen of the ghouls suit ya?"

I cock my head right back at him. "Sexy queen of the ghouls?"

"Obviously," he says, his other hand sliding around my waist. "Whaddya say. Next radstorm blows in, we'll see if we can't get some ghoul in ya."

"Oh," I say. "Do I have to wait that long?"

Clichéd, perhaps, but effective.

A couple of hours later, the General and the Mayor are lying legs entwined in the 'fancy' suite at the Rexford. He's got his head on my shoulder and his hand over my heart. Pulse of the city, he'd said, with a smile. I have a glass of scotch in my hand which is just about empty, so I'm wondering if I can reach for the bottle down on the floor there without disturbing him. Before I can decide, he reaches out his hand for the glass.

"What kind of a host am I," he says, retrieving the bottle himself. "Lettin' my lady's glass run dry."

He pours the whiskey, tipping the neck right into the glass with a grin that's nothing short of lascivious.

Hancock's a lot of things, but he's not subtle.

"Hey, whaddya know," he says, looking down at himself. "I'm ready to go again."

He was right, in a way. It couldn't last, not in that way. Our tastes... diverge. He likes things I'll never do. I like things he can't give. We have a very amicable conversation, adult to adult, ghoul to smoothskin. After it, we look at each other and say 'I can still touch your ass, right?'

So nothing really changes. If anything, we get worse, because we know what we can get away with. I'll be walking through Goodneighbor, and instead of a subtle presence at my arm, charming words, he's grabbing my elbow and backing into the alleyway with a wicked grin. We encourage each other on to terrible things. I think I'm responsible for at least two of the times that Fahrenheit's punched him.

And he's the reason... well, no. I'd love to blame him for the Maxson thing. But that was all me.

First time on the Prydwen, I ran the gauntlet of the Brotherhood faithful. Walked onto the observation deck. Looked him in the eyes.

Didn't really do anything for me. I was more interested in the coat.

The best kind of eyes are dark, and soft, and dreamy. The face can frown, they can be angry with you, but there's still a trace of warmth there. It's when they go cold, that you know you're done for. No matter how right you think you are, you'll walk through fire to fix it. If you can't, you'll keep on walking, because you know you deserve the pain.

Maxson's were cold already. Cold and hard. They looked at me like I was something that Quinlan's cat had deposited in the hallway. They said, 'I'm disappointed in you', before I'd even done anything. And if there's something that really pisses me off, it's being judged unfairly. I mean sure, I'm an asshole, abso-fucking-lutely, one hundred percent. But at least wait until you've seen some evidence of that. It's not like you'll have to wait very long.

But he didn't want to give me that chance. So I pushed back. I found the line, poked my toe over it. Repeatedly. Think you're disappointed in me now? Oh, just you wait and see.

He followed me down here. Put a gun to my head, like he didn't expect me to defend myself.

Then I found out what he was hiding under that coat of his.

You know the rest.

I wasn't expecting to be allowed back into the airport, let alone onto the ship. Even as I cross the walkways, I have my eyes open for the glances. The voices that hush as I approach. I'm alert. Prepared for it. This isn't my first rodeo.

But there's nothing.

So I track down Danse in the armor station. I cough, to get his attention. His eyes show anger, concern, relief, all in a matter of moments. He's remembering strike one. We agreed a rendezvous. I never showed.

"I'm sorry," I say.

He returns to his suit, and little as I know about power armor, I know he's not really doing anything to it.

"The Elder said..."

My heart stops.

"He said you were dealing with your personal matter."

He's not looking at me to see my nod, which is the only reply I'm able to give right now. So he puts down the screwdriver. Stands up, to his full height.

I will my heart to continue its usual job.

"It doesn't have to be personal," he says. "You're part of the Brotherhood now. We look after our own."

Okay. Right. Would you still be saying that if you knew it all? Valentine? Hancock? Now Maxson, as an interesting extra complication, as if I needed one?

He doesn't need to know about any of that. Lying by omission is barely lying at all. Right? So when we happen to be walking past CIT, and I happen to hear something on my radio, he doesn't need to know that I was expecting to hear it. Right?

Hey, it seems to be speeding up as I point it in this direction, let's go check it out.

"Do you hear that?" he asks, at the door of Greenetech.

Gunfire. Explosions. He snaps into full Paladin mode.

As we're moving through the building, my rational brain pipes up. 'Hey,' it says. 'Not only are you going to have to take a Courser down, oooh scary, but you're going to have to dig around in its brains in front of this guy. Have fun explaining that!'

Yeah, my rational brain is as much of an asshole as I am.

So I've kinda crashed down to earth and I am giving myself away really badly. I'm missing shots, walking out under turrets, nearly tripping over mines. Danse stops me, tells me to pull myself together. I apologise. But I can't tell him what's running through my mind. What do Coursers do, Corinna? What do you think you're going to find at the top of this building? How do you think that's going to go down?

It's a girl. She looks so normal. So human. And there's fear in her voice. Fear, and determination. She tells me her name. And her plan. And her Institute designation.

At the sound of the code, Danse's head snaps round like it's on elastic.

I suggest he scouts out the balcony. While he's out there, I tell the girl to get out as fast as she can. I don't know what she's got inside her, whether it's metal and wires like Valentine, or what's dribbling out of the Courser right now. But I know what the Brotherhood would want me to do in this situation. And I'm not going to do it.

Danse comes back in with the all-clear just before I'm done. Finds me on my knees by the cooling corpse, blood up to my elbows, holding this component like it could explode at any second. He looks in the side room, where the girl had been. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't really need to.

This is strike two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: [Five](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5834608/chapters/13520422)  
> Previous chapter: [Three](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5730103/chapters/13203835)


	2. Eight

Valentine's office is like a little wormhole into my past. Filing cabinets stuffed with folders, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. A few half-drunk mugs of coffee and mustard-stained sandwich wrappers scattered around and the illusion would be complete.

Unfortunately, condiments and caffeine didn't seem to survive the apocalypse, which is pretty much the opposite of what they always told us.

In the old days, I'd have sat down neatly, put my papers on the desk, and folded my hands in my lap. The picture of professionalism. Only there as a formality, because obviously my client was entirely innocent and there was no real need for a lawyer.

Now, I flop down like a sack of tatos, and let my head loll on the back of the chair with a groan.

"I got your note," he says. "Cleared my diary for you."

"Nick," I say, "it's 2am. I hope you didn't really have any appointments."

He chuckles at me. "I scheduled some diagnostics just so I could say that. You wanted to talk?"

"Yeah," I say, dragging myself out of the slouch.

"Go ahead," he says, sitting himself down, lighting a cigarette. "I'm all ears."

I sigh. "I don't really know where to start."

That's not entirely true. I've been rehearsing this for about two weeks. Hey, so, synth friend of mine, you know that whole anti-synth, anti-ghoul, anti-everything brigade with all the power armor and the laser rifles? I'm probably gonna pick them to spearhead the future of the Commonwealth, because somehow that's my decision.

Oh, and by the way, on an unrelated note, I'm pretty much fucking their leader.

Go me, right?

He stacks the lighter on top of the cigarette packet, and pushes it across the desk toward me. "Start from the beginning," he says, "but don't be a wise-ass, I don't need to hear about your ma and pa."

"Damn shame," I say, receiving them gratefully. "Because that's a good story."

"Hit me," he says, with a smirk. "One fact at a time."

I take out a cigarette, tap it on the desk. The tobacco inside is so dry, some of it breaks into dust and starts to fall out of the end.

"Shaun is the leader of the Institute," I say, pinching up the dust, trying to fit it back inside, hoping there wasn't anything else on the desk to start with.

"Oh," he says.

"Except, he's dying, so he's handing that responsibility over to yours truly." I point a tobacco-covered thumb at myself, because I feel it needs the emphasis.

"Oh," he says, his eyebrows rising.

I light the cigarette, or what's left of it, breathe a little while to let that sink in. "That's fucked up, right?"

"Sure is," he says, and pulls out a bottle of scotch from the bottom drawer of the desk.

Now this is starting to feel even more like my old office, though that was fourteenth floor, nice big windows. Wave the client out the door, grab the bottle out of the drawer. Drop my forehead on the desk, or call in my colleagues to commiserate. Oh, another one confessed? Well, shit.

"Seems like a great opportunity," I say, "but none of them down there trust me." I'm thinking specifically of the executive committee, or whatever they call themselves. Glaring at the filthy surface-dweller, completely unable to understand why their leader is making such an irrational decision.

"Think you can change their minds about that?"

I consider this for a second. But I already know my answer to that, too. "Maybe in time. But not if they ever find out about what I'm doing for the Railroad."

"Huh," he says. "I suppose so. How's it going with them?"

"I don't think they trust me either," I say.

"What makes you think that?"

As I'm saying it, I'm not even sure. On the one hand, I did leave them building the relay for me while I went off and... well. You know. But on the other, they do let me just walk in and out of their top-secret HQ. And I don't think Glory would be one to hold back if she decided I wasn't to be trusted.

Maybe it's just Deacon.

"They've assigned me this guy," I say. "Never takes off his shades. Spends half an hour changing before we go anywhere, Diamond City camo, Cambridge camo, fuckin' next fifty feet of road camo. And he's constantly fucking lying."

"About what?" says Nick.

"Everything," I say, "the guy lies about everything, I can't trust a single fucking word that comes out of his mouth." But at the same time, I'm thinking that it's never been important stuff. Not really. And he has had my back, even saved my life a couple of times. Actions speak louder than words.

"Alright," I say. "Maybe I'm being unfair about Deacon. But the Railroad are forcing me to lie. Given my background, that doesn't sit easy with me."

"You know, I could make a lawyer joke," he says.

"Come on Nick," I say. "You're breaking my heart, here."

Valentine holds up his hands, with another wry smile.

"I just can't go along with it any more," I say. "I can't in good conscience help the Institute, even if it is for the benefit of the Railroad."

Oh hey. First I'm echoing Hancock, now Danse, too. A quick look from Nick tells me that's not lost on him, either.

"You don't have to betray your principles," he says, "just because you feel you owe them something. Even if you feel they're in the right. Everyone's got a line."

Yeah. And I normally stomp all over everyone else's lines, so that doesn't help me much.

"Okay," he says. "What are the other options."

Oh boy. "Well," I say, stubbing out my cigarette. "The Brotherhood have the firepower."

I've just talked to the scientist they need to put their giant robot together. They can theoretically do it on their own, but I have a nasty feeling that if I go back to them, I'll be intimately involved in the process of arming myself against myself.

"Sounds like there's more to it," says Nick. He tops up my glass, as if he knows what's coming.

"Yeah," I say. "It's gotten a bit more complicated." I pick up a pen, start twisting it between my fingers.

"Oh," says Nick. "How so?"

My bare shoulders shrugging into a sheepskin-lined coat. Teeth grazing up the inside of my thigh. Blue eyes flashing up into mine.

I warned Maxson not to follow me; I guess he took it as a challenge. It has crossed my mind that maybe he saw it as an invitation. But no big deal, right? That kind of thing can be swept under the carpet, _what happens in Goodneighbor_ , you know.

Then he retrieved his coat, stroking his hands down my arms. Helped me back into my dress, even. Held the fabric flat against my back as he zipped it up. His fingers slid back around my waist, tracing patterns in the sequins.

That's when it got really complicated.

"You can't come back with me," he said. "Can you?"

"Not now," I said, as I tried to remember how to breathe.

He placed his hands flat on the table, either side of mine. Rested his forehead on my shoulder.

"You will, though," he asked. "Won't you?"

A tiny note of hope in his voice that hit me like a fist to the ribs.

I touched the side of his head with my cheek. Not a yes, but not a no. An apology, perhaps, for not being able to give that answer. For being that much of an asshole.

I shake my head, and return to Valentine's office.

"How do you think," I say, with a deep sigh.

"Oh," he says. "The Paladin?"

If only it were that simple. I look him right in the eye, and point my finger in the air.

"Oh," he says, but it doesn't sound like he quite understands.

I leave my finger there.

"Oh," he says, in a different tone of voice, his eyebrows rising that little bit higher.

I return to rolling the pen in my fingers.

"My point still stands," he says. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, just because you've... done whatever you've done. And that's you plural. He should know better, in his position."

"I'm a General," I say, with a shrug. "So should I."

He smiles reassuringly, amusement shining in those yellow eyes. "Well, that's not so bad, then. Makes it a diplomatic scandal, rather than an abuse of power. We should call Piper in, she'd love it."

I laugh, but I feel cold inside. It's hard to run away from your problems once they're in print. Don't ask me how I know.

"Seriously, though," he says. "The Institute do have to be stopped. And if you can't do it from inside, you have to do it from out here. And, you know. Whatever you do, someone's going to be unhappy with the decision you make. But they're still going to be glad that someone else is doing the deciding."

Wisest man in the Commonwealth, I swear. I reach across the desk and shake his hand.

"Thank you for your time, Detective," I say.

"The pleasure was all mine," he says.

And they call me Charmer.

I step out into Diamond City. Cold air, dark skies above the floodlights. A stark contrast to the warm light in Valentine's office, stuffy as it it. I'm not quite ready to set out, not yet, so I wander the back streets. Find a bench to sit on, look up at the great green wall. Nobody around to see me, nobody to recognise me, nobody to ask anything of me. I could stay here, maybe. Change my hair. Take a leaf out of Deacon's book and change my face, even. If I never go back, I never have to deal with the consequences, right?

Funny that the Paladin was Nick's first assumption, though. He's only seen me being an asshole to him, not that I've done much else since we met. Oh, you have these Brotherhood ideals? Uh huh? Well, I'll just be riding roughshod all over those. Don't like synths, huh? Hey, meet my friend Nick.

I do feel like shit for using Valentine like that. I just wanted to see where Danse drew the line. And then I saw it, and I didn't like it. So I pushed. I pushed hard enough that his eyes went cold.

Third strike. I'm out.

Maybe that's what's been making me feel so bad about all of this. Danse has been nothing but good to me, from the moment I exploded into his life. Literally exploded.

(Rest assured, I leave the grenades to other people, these days.)

But he trusted me. Sponsored me. Taught me, or tried to teach me, no matter how ungrateful or unwilling I was. He opened up about his life, about his doubts, as unlikely as that seems. He said I could trust him. And I said I did. We sat on a pile of packing cases behind the armor stations, and I told him about Nate, about Shaun, about Kellogg, just enough to make him think I did.

Lying by omission, right? As per fucking usual.

So there you have it. Two really good reasons not to go back up to the Prydwen. Two pairs of eyes that I don't really want to see. Two sets of arguments I really don't want to have.

But I have to think of the bigger picture. I need the Brotherhood. The Commonwealth needs them. And at least if I'm up there, I can... I don't know. Nudge them in the right direction?

Maybe. If I had any idea what I was doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: [Nine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5834608/chapters/13586173)  
> Previous chapter: [Seven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5730103/chapters/13265662)


	3. Twelve

The whole time I was walking back from the bunker, I saw my hands round Maxson's throat. My gun at his head. His blood spreading over the floor. I saw it so many times I thought I'd choke on the anger before I even made it back to the city.

But grass turned to concrete, suburbs turned to city streets, and I was still breathing. I had to decide what to do.

Only one option, really. Goodneighbor. A battle cry. _Come get me, I fucking dare you._

He did.

In the old world, this is the sort of time that I'd have been leaning on a bathroom sink, looking at my reflection, asking myself what I thought I was doing. But the mirror's broken, and so is the sink, and I already know I haven't got a clue. So I go back into the room. Lean against the doorframe and look at him, sitting there on the edge of the bed. He's staring at his hands, probably asking himself the same question.

I can still feel the anger, burning away in my chest.

I find the glasses of scotch. Drain and refill one, then press the other into his hand, and sit beside him. He brushes a finger over my nose, still swollen from when the feral caught me, asks how it happened. For a little while, we even talk, like we're actually people.

"So," I say. "What do we do about this?"

He doesn't say anything. Not with his voice, anyway. He takes the glasses, puts them on the floor. Strokes a hand round the back of my neck, and I'm already slinging my leg over his lap, so I guess we understand each other for once.

Now he's lying with his head on my chest, his arm resting over my stomach. His fingers trace lines along my ribs.

"Come back with me," he says.

I don't say anything.

"We'll take down the Institute," he says. "Together. For the Brotherhood."

For the Brotherhood.

The fucking Brotherhood.

Of course.

His fingers stop moving. His head becomes heavier, his breath warm and even over my skin.

I dislodge him, gently, and get to my feet. Pull my clothes back on.

It's tempting. I can't deny it. We can finish Prime. We can storm the Institute. We can put an end to all of this nonsense. But he's just demonstrated how fickle they are. How fickle he is.

This is the line. The Brotherhood line. Danse's loyalty and life are now irrelevant.

But... I've defied his direct orders, I don't even know how many times. And here he is in my bed.

When I get to the lobby, Hancock is more than halfway to trashed. He slides down the back of the sofa to rest his head in my lap, and lies looking adoringly up at me. "You should marry him," he says.

"Shut up, John," I say.

"You could claim the Commonwealth for yourselves. Declare yourselves Emperors. Build a palace."

"I'm not going to declare him anything," I say. "And I've already got a Castle."

"You could have a harem," he continues. "Tell ya what, I'll be your chief concubine. I'll test the others, make sure they're good enough for you. Bring you really good chems, day or night. Stressful job, Emperor, you'll need some quality relaxation time."

"Stop it," I say, but he's reaching up to stroke my cheek.

"Better yet," he says, "we could be a threesome. The Mayor, the Elder, and the General. Greatest love triangle in the 23rd century. They'll be singin' fuckin' songs about us. And I'm gonna live longer than the both of ya, so I'll make sure of it."

He hiccups. "Oh," he says. "I made myself sad."

"They'll sing songs about me anyway," I say. "And not necessarily polite ones."

He's starting to sing one for me, and it's not very polite, or at least not suitable for polite company. Something about the General's hat having more than one corner. I think it's a euphemism, but I'm not even going to ask.

Then all of a sudden, it comes to me. I do know what I'm going to do.

I know exactly what I'm going to do.

I say I need to fetch my pack. Push him off my lap. He grumbles about it, like a cat, but like a cat he accepts a cushion as replacement. He also continues singing, which is something I'm sure Fahrenheit is enjoying.

I go back up to the room. Maxson's still sleeping. Face down, legs splayed, arm hanging over the side of the bed. Still frowning, of course. I check through my pack, find a pencil and a piece of paper.

On it, I write:

_For the Commonwealth_

And I slip it into the pocket of his coat.

As I'm walking out of Goodneighbor, pack on my back, rifle on my shoulder, I'm checking the Pip-Boy. Estimating distances. Wondering if the drifters I paid to carry my messages will get there in time. If they'll just pocket the caps and toss the notes in the gutter. I did ask them right in front of KL-E0, so they'll never be able to set foot in Goodneighbor again if they do, but you never know.

Too late to worry about that now.

Days, maybe even a week later, I'm standing on top of the ruins of CIT. The wind's cold on my face. Sun bright in my eyes. The Commonwealth looks... almost beautiful, even while Shaun is telling me it's a dead, inhospitable, hopeless place.

He turns to me. "How did this happen?" he asks, coldly furious.

I'd gone back to the Institute. Went along with their requests, just for a little longer. Just to make sure. Wandered through the corridors, running my fingers along the walls. Looked into the eyes of every synth I passed, wondering if any of them were looking back at me with fear that I'd seen the truth in them.

Meet the Courser at Bunker Hill, he'd said. Retrieve the synths from the Railroad, have you heard of them?

Doesn't ring a bell, I said. Is that a bar?

I met the Courser. As soon as he turned his back, I shot him in the back of the head with Kellogg's pistol. I put on a pair of shades and adopted 'scared caravan worker looking for shelter' camo. After a Brotherhood Knight very kindly escorted me through the battle, I handed out sunglasses and taught the synths the same trick.

Back in the present, Shaun is glaring at me, waiting for an answer.

"I have no idea," I say.

I expected I'd have the _son, I am disappointed in you_ conversation over homework. A broken window, or the first broken-hearted girlfriend. Not over creating an army of robots intent on recolonising our home. Not over releasing his own mother into the Commonwealth as some sort of experiment. A twisted 23rd century bloodsport.

But it brings out the first sign that he truly is his mother's son. The expression on his face says it all. You think you're disappointed? I'll show you disappointment.

He disappears in a crackle of blue lightning.

Start the timer.

I head south. It takes me the best part of a day to reach Jamaica Plain. It's developed into a bustling little trading post. Good place to lay low, if you don't mind the occasional supermutant attack. I almost don't recognise him in civilian gear after however many months of flight suit or bust. He's sitting on a low wall in the sun, reading a Grognak comic. He looks up as my shadow crosses the page. His eyebrows nearly shoot up off his forehead.

"Danse," I say.

He fumbles the comic as though he's embarrassed. Stands up. And we're back to normal, me craning my neck to look at him.

"It was you?" he says, "the message? It didn't have a name on it."

"Of course not," I say. "I'm far too paranoid for that."

"What's the situation?" he asks, frowning. "Did Maxson send you?"

I cough, thinking of the last place I saw Maxson.

"No," I say, "but there is a situation, and I would like to secure the services of one of the finest soldiers I've ever known."

He smiles, eyes warm.

I tell him to gather his things, while I search out a fragment of broken glass or mirror. Pull the tricorn hat from my pack. It feels odd to be using bobby pins for their original purpose, and I was never really one for hats in the first place. But I find a way to make it settle, at an angle chosen for maximum rakishness. I've learned from the best.

"Ready to go?" I ask.

"Ready when you are, Knight."

I place my hand on my chest, gasp as if offended. "General," I correct him. "Please."

"My apologies, General."

He's still smiling. This is the most I've ever seen him smile. This is... kind of amazing, actually.

The Minutemen standing up on the walls of the Castle raise their weapons as we cross the sandbar, but lower them again pretty quickly. Probably because they've seen the hat. Or possibly because of the barking, and the black-and-tan blur that speeds out from the Castle and near knocks me off my feet.

Danse doesn't quite know how to react, which means Deacon didn't get him a dog. It also means it's my job to demonstrate for him the time-honored tradition of baby-talking at something that is not a baby, while also asking the real philosophical questions of who's a good boy. Is it you? Yes it is.

Nobody will ever love me as much as Dogmeat does. And that's ok.

Garvey follows Dogmeat out, somewhat less precipitously. "I got your message, General. We're ready. For whatever they throw at us."

I smile. "Good to see you again, Preston. And, uh, the other thing?"

He grins back. Leads us down to the armory.

Call me a sentimental asshole if you will, but I remembered exactly how Danse felt about his power armor. My reward for his 'elimination' was supposed to be his old set, but I sort of never went back up there to claim it.

Fortunately, I have a couple of sets just lying around. As you do.

"You might need to adjust it for height," says Garvey, "but otherwise it's in good condition."

Danse is standing spellbound before it. "Is this an X-01?" he says, reaching out a tentative hand.

"Of course," I say. "Only the best for you. And help yourself to whatever else you want."

I look around the room, which is literally bristling with weaponry. I don't even recognise half of this stuff, so I leave him to it. He can talk to Garvey about bullets and modifications or whatever.  I wander out into the courtyard. I'm just looking around at the bustle, kinda surprised at how many of us there are. Then my eye is caught by something on the walls. A flash of sunlight. Two flashes of sunlight, in fact, as if reflected from a pair of mirrored shades. The, uh, Minuteman grins and raises his hand in a salute.

Well. I haven't burned _all_ my bridges, at least.

I go to stand on the north wall of the Castle. And I want to kick myself. All this time, trying to mash myself into the right shape to be accepted by the Brotherhood, or the Railroad. And I had my own army, all along.

Garvey joins me on one side, Danse on the other. Dogmeat dances around my feet. I raise my middle fingers in the general direction of the Institute.

"Come get me," I say.

I fucking dare you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous chapter: [Eleven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5730103/chapters/13338961)


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